Protection Detail
by r4ven3
Summary: Yet another post-S.10 fic. What happens when Tom Quinn is hired to get Harry Pearce out of England? On whose behalf is Tom acting, and why is Harry on a plane, headed to an unknown destination? Told in 6 chapters, this story includes some characters of my own making - Kim Castleman and Gavin Scott - while the rest belong to Kudos.
1. Chapter 1

Kim Castleman felt a large, warm presence beside her left elbow, so she took her eyes from the series of three tug boats chugging slowly along the Thames, and turned to look into the eyes of Tom Quinn, former MI-5 agent. He'd filled out a little since she'd last seen him, and his eyes were a trifle softer. _That'd be married life_, she thought, envying for a moment Tom's landing on his feet with Christine Dale. When she'd first met him, he'd fallen in love with every mildly attractive woman he'd met. His conversation had always been punctuated with Ellie-this, or Suzie-that, or Marnie-something-else. That had been around twelve years ago, and so much had happened to them both since.

"I guess you're wondering why I called," Tom began, his eyes following the tug boats as they chugged past the Houses of Parliament.

"I never imagined you'd be asking after my health, Tom. How is Christine?"

"She's fine, and so am I. You?"

"I'm still fighting the good fight."

"That's good, because I need you to do something for me."

"You have to know that I no longer leap tall buildings at a single bound. I turned forty-eight a month ago."

Tom turned from scrutinising the river to looking into her face. One thing Kim liked least about Tom was his propensity for treating casual acquaintances like specimens under a microscope …... second only to his absolute inability to engage in small talk.

"You look perfectly capable to me. Besides, what I'm offering you won't demand very much of you... and you'll get to travel."

Kim waited. She didn't actually want to be talking to Tom, and had almost declined his call, except that curiosity had won. She also missed normal human contact. Living from day to day, week to week had taken its toll.

"I heard that you met Harry Pearce."

"Ah …..."

She'd been contacted by someone deep in the Home Office - code name Henry V, a stupid code name in her opinion – and her brief had had her attending the reception for the EU delegates. She'd had to turn up, dressed as though she belonged there, and she'd be given her orders when she arrived.

* * *

_6 weeks earlier: _

She was nursing a glass of champagne, eyeing off the people in the grand ballroom, when a grey figure stood just behind her shoulder, and began talking in low tones.

"There is a man who has just stepped through the double doors to your left. He is on the patio. You are to follow him, and then report back with your findings."

_God! Don't these people just long for us to return to the Cold War?_

"Do I stay in the shadows, or can I speak to him?"

"That's up to you. You can befriend him if you wish. One thing you need to know. He is very upset, and didn't wish to be here tonight."

When he finished speaking she turned, but he was gone. God, she hated these little assignments, where she was expected to use her charm and her easy way with people. Some day she wanted to be a right bitch, and create a massive stink. She'd once been rather good at that.

Slowly, she edged her way to the double doors, and stepped on to the patio, a wide, paved area, mostly under the cover of the roof of the building. Once her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she spotted a figure standing at the foot of the steps which led from the patio to the garden, his hands in the pockets of his coat, a light-coloured scarf flung around his neck. She watched him for a while, and she was sure he was speaking, although she couldn't hear what he was saying. Slowly, she walked closer, standing at the edge of the patio, protected by the roof from the light drizzle which fell. The man she was watching had no such protection, and the drizzle settled in droplets in his light-coloured hair, and on the shoulders of his woollen coat. She stood no more than three yards from him, just behind his right shoulder. She heard him sigh heavily, as he slumped his shoulders.

"You need to know," he said at last, "that I can see you."

She'd said nothing. Maybe he was talking to someone else, although there was no-one else out there.

"The window of the summer house is slightly open, and I can see you in its reflection."

_He's a bloody spook! So, why are the spooks checking up on their own?_

Kim moved a few steps closer, and the man turned so that in the pale light which fell on them from the windows of the ballroom, she could see his face. She hadn't expected to see such deep pain etched into his face. His cheeks were tear-stained, and his eyes were the saddest she'd seen in a long time, and she saw sad eyes every morning she looked in the mirror. There was something familiar about his face, and she knew she should recognise him. She also knew that she was staring at him.

"But you're …..."

"You must be the only person who doesn't know."

Kim turned as if to go. "I'll leave you to it. I'm sorry -"

"Don't go," he said.

So she didn't. "We need to find somewhere out of the rain. You look like you need to talk."

The man put his hand out for her to shake it. "I'm Harry," he said, "and I think we're probably in the same business."

"Probably. I'm Kim, and the name after Harry is Pearce, am I right?"

He nodded, and led her to the summer house. He was right. The window was ajar, but inside it was warm, and the lights from the ballroom illuminated the seats by the window. They sat down, their seats a comfortable distance apart. Were this a normal operation, Kim would not have accepted any invitation to enter an enclosed space alone with a man. Not that she hadn't done that in the past, but she was not as agile or athletic as she had once been. These days she valued her life more than her job.

"You're not five or six, are you?"

"No. Strictly freelance."

"You've been sent outside to keep an eye on me?"

She nodded.

"I'm not about to throw myself in the lake."

"I didn't think you were. But I can see why others may have thought you might."

Harry pursed his lips in a gesture of irritation.

"Bloody Home Office," he said.

They sat there saying nothing for quite a while. Kim was with him, and that was her task …... to keep an eye on him. He was an enigma to her. For a man of his age – late fifties – he was rather attractive, but that may have been the public persona which he'd had to develop as part of his job. She'd heard of him, of course, but there was some history, some snippet of information about him which she needed to know, but had forgotten …... something quite recent.

"You're wondering why I'm not inside, smarming it up with the rest of them."

"Not at all. I consider you to be the most sensible man here tonight. This summer house is far more congenial than that ballroom. Politicians, economists and security services shoulder to shoulder is not my idea of a fun night out."

Harry Pearce smiled then for the first time that night. "You're my kind of person, Kim."

"You mean anti-social?"

He laughed at that, and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped. Suddenly his face changed – from a smile to one so sad that Kim felt herself holding her breath. This was turning out to be one of the strangest jobs she'd been on in a while.

"I lost someone," he said after a long silence. "I'm out here because had she not died, we'd be inside together, talking it up with the members of the EU, dancing …..."

"I …... had heard …... something. She was -"

"My former senior intelligence analyst."

"Yes. I remember now. How long …...?"

"It was one month ago today that she was buried. Her funeral was the day of my fifty-eighth birthday. I'll not forget that day. It was …..."

Kim noticed how he clenched and unclenched his hands as he spoke.

"The pain doesn't diminish. They say that time heals all wounds, but that's bullshit."

"I seem to remember there being a furore over it all."

"It became mixed up with the death of a former Russian agent. It was her son who killed Ruth. He'd meant to kill me, but she stood between him and me – to protect me. I can't get past ….."

"The guilt."

"Yes." He took a deep breath, and let it out, dropping his head so that she couldn't see his face, but she heard a sigh which may have been a sob.

They sat together in the summer house for another hour. Harry sighed often, and occasionally cried quietly, and Kim sat there and let him. She had no words of comfort for him. What was there to say? When someone was dead, that was it. They were no more. This man was grieving what could have been, what should have been, and now would never be.

"When I first saw you tonight," she ventured after a while, "you were talking. Were you talking to her?"

Harry looked up at her, and wiped his eyes. He nodded. "I talk to her quite a lot. It helps me to …..."

"Believe she's still alive."

"Not really. I know she's dead. That's the problem. It helps me to feel a connection with her."

"I know. My husband …... he was the closest person I've lost."

"How long ago?" Harry asked quietly.

"It will be five years this June. You're right. The time which passes means nothing. Five years feels like five weeks, sometimes like five days."

"Do you still cry?"

She shook her head. "I have no tears left. For two years I was like you are now, and then one day I woke up and decided that I'd better live my life, otherwise I'd be known as that old woman who cries every day."

"I'm afraid that if I stop crying I'll forget her …... that I'll forget how much I love her and miss her."

"You never forget that. You don't have to grieve openly to miss her. She knows how much you miss her."

Harry had turned to her then, and looked at her as if seeing her for the first time.

"It gets better?"

"No. It just begins to be part of the way your life is. You embrace your grief, and accommodate it, like a dodgy boyfriend your daughter brings home, and insists is `the one'. You go to work and manage, and then you go home and fall apart."

* * *

"The man who spoke to you at the reception," Tom continued, "that's my contact in the Home Office. His name is Julian Welles."

"He calls himself Henry V."

"Yes, well, he's a fan of the Shakespeare play. He knows the whole play by heart, word for word, which is harmless enough, I suppose. He's been seconded from GCHQ, and is a trained analyst. Not as good as Ruth Evershed was, but no-one ever will be."

"You organised my contacting Harry Pearce?"

"Yes. Rather creative, don't you think?"

Kim shook her head, mouthing the word, `stupid' to herself. "We both felt like guinea pigs, Tom."

"Couldn't be helped. I had to get you together in a way you'd not run away from one another. Did you like him?"

"He was alright. You do realise he's grieving the death of the woman he still loves, and I'd prefer to find my own bed companions."

"Of course. I had an assignment for you, and it involves Harry Pearce. Cancel everything you have in your diary for the next couple of months."

And then he told her his plan. If it worked, it was a good plan. It's just that Kim Castleman wasn't sure that it was a good plan. This was Harry Pearce they were dealing with.


	2. Chapter 2

Kim struggled to her seat with her hand luggage. Harry was there before her, and stood up to help her put it in the locker above their seats. They settled into their seats, buckled their seat belts, and once the plane was in the air, they sat back and relaxed.

"This is a crazy assignment," Kim said at last, more to break the ice than anything.

Harry nodded, but didn't look at her. This was the first time she'd seen him since the EU reception eleven weeks earlier, which meant it was almost four months since Ruth Evershed's death, and Harry didn't look any happier …... not that Kim expected him to be happy. She'd been where he was, and she didn't envy him one bit. Grief was a long and dark tunnel, and could only be successfully navigated alone. Harry still had a lot to live through.

They talked little on the flight. Harry put on headphones, and read a book, while Kim decided it would be prudent to catch up on sleep. Their first stop was Athens. The hotel they stayed in was small and poky, but the room was comfortable. The room. One room between them. Kim and Harry were travelling as a married couple – John and Kim Pettifer – and Kim was receiving daily updates from Tom Quinn. She was not sure why it was she had not been given the itinerary up front, before they had left London. No doubt Tom had his reasons. Perhaps he didn't trust her with the truth. All she knew was that she was to accompany Harry Pearce to a destination – yet unknown to she and Harry – and she was to leave him there, and then fly back to London. What he did when he got there was up to Harry.

Kim had her ideas, of course. She knew that Tom had chosen her because she was of an age which would render her believable as Harry's wife, and because, like Harry, she was still grieving the loss of her partner, and so there would be no chance of a complicated attraction arising between the two of them. Kim quite liked Harry, but he was not her type. He was too deep a thinker, and a melancholic personality, and she liked her men to be out-going and chatty – just like Andy had been. She was sure that had she been the one who'd died, rather than Andy, he'd have invited all their friends around for a wake, and they'd have sung along to Bee Gees songs as a way of celebrating her life. Andy had been like that; he'd been a glass-half-full man. Harry Pearce, on the other hand, viewed the world as a dark and lonely place without his Ruth in it.

As Kim saw it, the most likely destination for Harry would be somewhere in the Middle East, and he had volunteered for a dangerous mission, one from which he would most likely never return. The other likely possibility was that he was being put out to pasture in some far flung part of the globe. Either way, Kim doubted that even Harry knew where they were headed.

"You have the bed, and I'll sleep on the sofa."

Harry's words drew Kim out of her reverie. "I'm smaller that you, Harry. I should sleep on the sofa."

"You're not going to argue about this, are you?"

"We are meant to be married, so why not?"

Harry gave her a rare smile, but it was brief, and his face soon returned to being impassive and unreadable, the face of a man who has lost just one person too many.

They dined in the hotel restaurant, a small room at the front of the building, and then retired to their room. Their conversation was stilted, mainly because Harry had developed a habit of simply not saying anything, of not answering when Kim asked him a question, or of cutting off his own reply mid-sentence. Kim would have found it irritating had she not remembered her own ennui in the two or so years after Andy had died. That had been a time when normal conversation had bored her, and she'd simply wanted to go to bed, wrap herself in her duvet, and stay there until she herself simply slipped away. She knew that Harry felt that way, like he was engaging in an unconscious suicide.

After she was tucked in bed, and Harry had found a comfortable position on the sofa, Kim turned out the light, and tried to sleep. She was on the very edge of sleep when she heard Harry breathing in deeply, something she herself had done to stave off the tears when others were around to overhear, and to perhaps offer unwanted sympathy. She lay silent for a few minutes, but after a time, she could remain silent no longer.

"Harry," she said quietly, "tell me about her. It might help if you talk about her. I'll just listen."

Around ten minutes passed before Harry spoke. His breathing had steadied, and he'd been silent for some minutes. "I can't. I can't just …... talk about her. Sorry."

All the time they'd been in bed, Kim had been thinking. He was grieving, she – against her will – was still grieving, so …...

"Harry …... why don't we ... you know …... comfort each other?" she said, not knowing how best to broach the subject. `I'm lonely, you're lonely' sounded so clichéd.

"No, Kim. I'm sorry, I ... It's not that you're not attractive …..."

"It's alright, and don't apologise. I thought it might …... help. No strings, just a shag."

"You're not Ruth," was all he said, and that said it all, really.

"And you're not Andy, but I wouldn't hold that against you."

"Tell me about him."

"Andy?"

"Yes. Tell me about Andy. Everything you loved about him."

"Even after five years, I still love him."

"I know."

So Kim talked about Andy, random memories of a man she'd been married to for seventeen years.

"You know," Harry said after Kim had become exhausted by her own reminiscing, "there are mornings I wake up, and think about the day ahead, wondering whether Ruth will come into Thames House that day, whether I'd see her, what she'll say, what I'll say to her, and then it hits me. It's like losing her all over again. I can't bear it …... the waking up. I'd rather stay awake all night, knowing she's dead, than to wake in the morning to discover all over again that ... she's dead."

That was the longest speech she'd heard from him, the man who had said almost nothing to her in the time they'd been travelling together.

"I won't bullshit you, Harry. Losing the person you love most in the world is one of the worst things that can happen to you …... other than losing a child, which I believe is probably impossible to accept."

"You don't have children?" Harry asked, his voice quiet.

"No. We couldn't, and after around five years, we became comfortable with there just being the two of us. Somehow that brought us closer. Do you? Have children."

"Two. A woman and a man. They're no longer children."

"You didn't have them with Ruth?"

"No, my ex-wife. She brought them up almost single-handed. I can lay little claim to them, but they're still mine. I've seen little of them over the years, but I'm trying to rectify that."

"Do they know about Ruth?"

"They do now. They wanted to know what was bothering me …... after Ruth died, that is …... so I told them about her. I was rather surprised by how empathic they've been."

"Perhaps they've always seen you as some kind of tough guy – a man of steel – and it's only now they're seeing your more human side."

"Perhaps you're right. I've always thought I had to be a man of steel, as you call it, in order to survive …... but it's only since they've witnessed my vulnerability that they've allowed me close to them."

And so they talked quietly until the early hours – two people who had been hurt by life, and had not known how to navigate the days ahead. Just talking to Kim Castleman, opening up to her, had provided Harry with the solace he was needing. They each fell asleep, tired from talking, but less emotionally fraught.

* * *

From Athens, they then travelled to Salzburg, Vienna, Florence, and Rome. They spent no more than three nights in each city, and once they'd been away from London for twelve nights, Kim received her next phone call from Tom.

"There are tickets waiting for you at the Cairo International Airport. You should fly out in the morning. Your destination – your ultimate destination – will be on your tickets. When you get there, you will receive further instructions, but it is there that you and Harry will part. How is he, by the way?"

"I think he's better for being away from work, but he's still a very sad man."

"Fine," Tom said, somewhat inappropriately, as Kim saw it. "He'll improve once he gets to your ultimate destination."

"You can guarantee that?"

"I can. No more questions, Kim. You're the protection detail, remember."

"Yes, I know my place. I'm the hired help."

"Exactly."

* * *

Two days later, Kim and Harry booked into a tourist hotel east of Denpasar in Bali, Indonesia.

"Did you bring clothes for the tropics, Harry?"

"No. Did you?"

Kim shook her head, and smiled. "Time to go shopping."

They took a taxi into Denpasar, and Kim helped Harry choose some hot weather clothing, and then she left him in a streetside café, while she shopped for some lightweight clothing for herself. Later, back at their hotel, after Harry had wandered into the village alone, she received her next set of instructions from Tom Quinn. Kim stepped outside the room she shared with Harry, on to a verandah which ran the length of the building. The air outside was stifling, and Kim had trouble breathing.

"Enjoying the heat, Kim?" Tom asked.

"Not terribly. It's the kind of heat which makes breathing difficult. What's next on the agenda?"

"You have to leave Harry there."

"Why?"

And what Tom told her next had her hyperventilating, not because of the heat and humidity, but because of the audacity of what Tom told her. It was unthinkable.

Kim stepped off the verandah, and walked between the banana palms which hid their hotel from the road. She walked and walked until the perspiration rolled down her spine, and into her underwear. She couldn't get past how outraged she felt, not only on Harry's behalf, but also her own. In the days she and Harry had been travelling together, she had grown, perhaps not to actually like him, but she had slowly developed a respect for the sullen spy, as she privately referred to him. What had been done to him, and others - by people unknown - was not fair in Kim's book.

When she stepped back through the double doors into their room, Harry had arrived back from his walk to the village. Sitting on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, his face was pale, and he looked like a man in shock. Hearing Kim enter the room and close the doors, he looked up at her.

"Alright?" she said.

Harry shook his head slowly from side to side.

"What's wrong?" God, please don't let him be in the middle of having a heart attack. Not now.

Harry swallowed, and passed one hand over his face. "I've just seen her."

No, no, no, no, no …... this is _not_ how this is meant to go.

"I've just seen her, and I followed her to her house. Ruth. She didn't die. She's alive."


	3. Chapter 3

"Shit!" It was all Kim could say. She could have said `fuck', but it would not have conveyed any more clearly how she was feeling. She watched Harry, his body slumped on the sofa, as he held his head in his hands. "Shit!" she said again.

"Kim …... could you please leave me alone for a bit? I need …... my own company for a while ..."

Kim left the room, relief overwhelming her. Harry Pearce was more complex than the men she'd known, and he'd led a complicated existence, his life still clouded by lies, confusion and subterfuge – the spies' constant companions. She left the room, and headed for the bar. It had just gone 2 pm, so surely it was high time for a drink.

* * *

In the room he shared with Kim, Harry stood up and crossed to the bed. He lay on his back in the middle of the bed, his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. He wanted to flick off the switch which made the world turn – just for an hour or so – so that he could take a few deep breaths, and figure out what had just happened. By her reaction, he supposed that Kim knew something. One wouldn't say `shit' – twice – when hearing the news that your friend's dead loved one was not dead after all. Kim should have said something like, `But Harry, that's wonderful news.' He was sure that Kim had known why they had booked into this hotel – a small, one-storied building on a road outside Denpasar. Why not one of the many hotels in Denpasar itself?

He had walked through the village, taking in the smells, the people, the guttural rattle of the Indonesian language, and the mosquito-like whine of the many motor cycles which careered down the central street in the village, with little apparent concern for the many more people who either rode bicycles, or walked along the road. Further along the street, he had seen a woman who resembled Ruth, and he'd wondered whether he was again seeing her everywhere, just as he had in London during the first weeks after she'd died. He'd walked quicker, keeping his distance, but close enough so that if she ducked into a shop, or down a lane, he'd see her, and be able to follow her. He followed her to a compact two-storied house set back from the road. It was when she reached this house, that she turned through the row of palms at the front, and the last he saw her, was when she opened the front door, and disappeared inside.

He had no doubt that the woman was Ruth. During the years he'd known her, he'd spent a total of what must have been hundreds of hours watching her. He knew how her body moved when she walked. Her walk was imprinted on his soul. He knew how she looked when she was afraid, when she was confident, and when she was embarrassed. He _knew_ her, and the woman he'd seen had been Ruth, of that he had no doubt. She'd been dressed in a floral skirt, and a sleeveless red top. He himself had changed into a pale pair of cotton trousers, and a beige short-sleeved shirt, and apart from his colouring and his build, he blended into the throng on the busy street which ran the length of the village, almost to the ocean.

The question he needed answering was why - given she hadn't died – had he been kept in the dark, and why was he being dragged to this place – so far from home – in order to see Ruth again. More than anything, he wanted to get up from the bed, and go to Ruth, but first he needed answers from someone who knew what this was all about. He thought he'd begin by seeking answers from Kim.

* * *

Harry found her in the bar of the hotel. She was nursing a local beer, arguing Indonesian politics with the barman, an Australian, if his accent was anything to go by.

"It's people like you who exploit the local people," Kim said, perhaps too loudly.

The Australian barman was about to defend himself, when Harry grabbed Kim's arm, and drew her to a spare table by the window.

"Perhaps your friend would like a drink?" the barman asked, addressing Kim, who ignored him.

"What can you tell me?" Harry asked Kim, once they were both sitting, and there was a potted palm between their table and the bar.

Kim looked up at Harry, and he could see something approaching shame in her eyes.

"Harry …... I didn't know what was at the end of our journey until Tom Quinn rang me, and that was only minutes before you arrived back from your walk. He …. Tom …... has texted me with an address where I'm meant to send you. When I do that, I'm to catch the next flight back to London. This is the address."

Kim had taken her phone from the pocket of her slacks, and scrolled to the message from Tom. She handed the phone to Harry, who read the message, and then handed the phone back to her.

"I believe the house is the third from the end nearest the sea."

"I know. I followed her there."

"You've spoken to her?"

"No. I didn't know what to say. I was outraged, but figuring Ruth probably doesn't deserve my outrage, I came back to the hotel." Harry sighed heavily. He was having difficulty controlling the emotion which bubbled up from deep within him. "What part has Tom Quinn played in all this?"

"Honestly? I don't know the full story. I just know a few bits and pieces. I'm your protection detail. I just follow orders."

Harry grimaced at the words, `I just follow orders'. He'd heard them spoken so often, and by so many. They were generally spoken when someone was attempting to distance themselves from responsibility.

"I suggest you go to see Ruth. She knows more than all of us combined."

"Who is it employing Tom?"

"I'm not altogether sure, but I think that whoever they are, they work in the Home Office."

"So ….. the Home Secretary is behind this?"

"Tom told me today that the Home Secretary believes Ruth to be dead, and his ignorance of the truth about her will be her best protection …... and ultimately, yours also."

"Who are these people, and why have they set Ruth and me up in this way?"

"Have you heard of Julian Welles?"

Harry shrugged. "The name rings a bell, but I can't think from where. No ... wait. I think he was recommended as a replacement for Ruth when she went to work in the Home Office. I turned him down, opting for one of our juniors."

"He's a small fry in the Home Office, but has big ambitions, and somehow, he has access to a lot of what goes on outside his own office. His real ambition is to be part of the security services. My guess is that he wants your job, Harry, but I'm prepared to be proven wrong. He works for the Under Secretary of State, and so whilst William Towers is responsible for what goes on in all departments, he may not have a clue about what really goes on behind closed doors."

"Did Towers sign off on this operation?"

"Towers thinks you're on stress leave, and he was happy to give you open-ended leave, given the circumstances of …..."

"The past few months."

"Yes," said Kim. "Would you like a drink, Harry?"

"What's the time?"

"Twenty-eight minutes after three."

"I wouldn't say no. Mine's a -"

"Single malt whiskey, I know. Gavin?" She called to the barman, who had a local newspaper spread out on the bar in front of him. "A single malt whiskey for my friend."

"You have a choice. There's the Thai, or the Californian."

"Nothing European?" Harry asked.

"Sorry, no. There's little call for it, and the locals can't afford it."

Gavin's leather sandals slapped on the floor as he walked across the room from the bar with Harry's drink, the Californian single malt. "Enjoy," he said, although his tone said, `I hope you choke on it.'

"He's lived in Bali too long," Kim tried explaining, but Harry just grunted as he sipped his drink. "How is it?" she asked.

"It'll do."

"We may never know the full story, Harry. The only thing I know for sure is that whoever planned this has plenty of money at their disposal, and so that puts Julian Welles right in the picture. He has no need to work for a living, but he longs to be James Bond. He must have accomplices, but you know how labyrinthian the Home Office is."

"I'm thinking that Ruth may have organised for Tom to set up some kind of subterfuge in order to get me here."

"Perhaps." Kim hesitated, turning her almost empty bottle of Bintang Pilsener with her fingers. "One thing I've been wondering about …... Harry, why did you just go along with the trip? You must have been suspicious of why we had to fly together."

"Not really. For a start, I haven't quite been myself these past months, and ... well ... Tom Quinn was rather persuasive, and I needed a change of scenery. I needed to ... do something different. Towers seemed happy to see the back of me, so I assumed he'd arranged it, and I presumed you were along for the ride so that I didn't end it all in some dark alley in Kabul."

"No, he wasn't the one who planned it. I suspect that Tom Quinn has been behind this, but the money to employ him – and me – came from someone who has more money than sense …... and fancies themselves as a secret agent."

Kim ordered another beer, and Harry another Californian single malt. Gavin finished his shift, and was replaced by a New Zealander called Liam.

"Ruth is expecting you to visit her soon after six o'clock tonight," Kim said at last.

Harry sighed heavily, but she noticed a smile transform his features.

"I'll be leaving in the morning, Harry, regardless of what you and Ruth decide. The room has been booked for a week, so after that …..."

"I might want to either move in with Ruth, or go home."

"I believe that is the idea. The bottom line is," Kim continued carefully, "that you are in a place some would call paradise, and the woman you love, whom you had believed to be dead, has brought you here to be with her. You can't get much better than that."

* * *

Harry ate an early dinner in the hotel restaurant, and then stood under the shower for a long time. He shaved carefully, running his fingers over his skin to ensure he'd done a decent job of shaving. He dressed carefully in fresh clothes, and applied just a small amount of cologne before he left to walk to Ruth's house. Despite this being the answer to his prayers, he was still a little put out. He felt he'd been lied to for almost four months – he _had_ been lied to for almost four months – and it was going to take him some time to come to terms with that.

It was just after 7pm when he again stood outside the house he'd seen Ruth enter earlier in the day. He admitted to himself that he was very nervous. He hadn't spoken to her in almost four months, and their last conversation had been overladen with hope and fear – hope for the future they planned together, and fear that this shared future would never eventuate. What does one say to the person they'd believed to be dead? All he knew for sure was that he didn't want to shed any tears, but he was afraid he'd have little control over his emotions when faced with her …... in the present, and in the flesh.

He must have been standing between the palms, just inside the gateway, for around ten minutes, when the front door to the house opened, and there she was, standing in the gloom, a light from behind her outlining her body shape.

"Ruth," he breathed, still unable to move any closer to her.

"Harry, come here."

It took him a while to understand what she had said, but when she stepped away from her doorway, and held her arms out to him, her intent was clear. He wanted to run to her, and scoop her up in his arms. He wanted to carry her inside, climb the stairs with her in his arms (as if he could!), and then make love to her until they lay exhausted and sweat-soaked.

Harry didn't run to her, but he began walking towards her, and as he got closer, he could see her dear features in all the detail he'd remembered, the same detail he'd conjured every night as he'd tried to stave off asleep by remembering everything about her. He held out his own arms, and she walked right into them, and so he drew her against him so that she buried her face in his chest. He held on to her, his cheek against hers, and in that moment, he knew he would forgive her anything. All that mattered was that they were together again.

* * *

**_A/N: Thanks to those who are reading, and to the kindness of those who have left encouraging reviews. (And I ask for readers' understanding, for you to not examine the supporting plot too closely - `tis little more than a device!)_**


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: This chapter is definitely M rated.**_

* * *

Harry really, really wanted to kiss her, but before he had a chance to do so, Ruth pulled out of his arms, took his hand, and led him inside, where her house was surprisingly modern, with furniture made of cane and a large dining table of solid teak. The furnishings were in soft colours, and looked plush and comfortable, and on the polished wood floors were scattered brightly coloured rugs. A wooden staircase led to the upper floor, where he supposed her bedroom would be.

"Have you eaten?" Ruth asked, turning to face him, her hand still holding his.

"I ate at the hotel before I came here," he said, wondering why they were bothering with such mundane details, when the questions which needed to be asked all remained unspoken.

"Would you like a drink? I have beer or beer. Or tea, of course. The climate -"

"Ruth -"

"- isn't conducive to spirits, or even wine."

"Ruth." Harry grasped her hand tighter, and she looked into his eyes.

"You're angry with me," she said, dropping her eyes under his scrutiny.

"No …... not any more. I was, especially when I thought that everything had been your idea."

"No, it wasn't all my idea …... only the plan to get you here, which I sanctioned, but didn't set up. Towers doesn't have a clue that I recovered from my injury. Like you, he was told I was dead on arrival at the hospital. I came here to recuperate from my injury. It was either here or Thailand. Don't ask me why. My flight was paid for, my keep has been paid for, and unusually for me, I didn't ask the necessary questions. Someone from inside the Home Office organised it all, telling me to lay low for a while, and I just assumed that Towers was being more than generous. When Tom Quinn contacted me, I was over the moon. It meant we could spend some time together, away from England."

Harry stepped away from her. He could not get caught up in her until he was sure that what she'd told him was true. But maybe …... just maybe, Ruth had told him the truth. Maybe the whole story of her hiding out here, pretending to be dead, was not so complicated after all. Maybe _he_ was the one making it complicated.

"A cup of tea would be nice, thank you."

Noticing his forced politeness, Ruth decided to leave him on his own for a little while, so she left the living room and walked through an archway into the kitchen, where she busied herself making tea. She was standing with her back to the living room, watching the kettle coming to the boil, when she felt Harry's presence behind her. As much as she wanted to, she didn't turn around. She felt Harry's arms around her waist, and his chest against her shoulders, and so she leaned back against him, and it was the safest she'd felt in a very long time.

She leaned into him, turning her face into his neck, and closed her eyes, while he curled his arms around her waist, and put his lips to her neck. While his body and his lips were warm, she shivered with the touch of his mouth on the sensitive skin of her neck, and he stepped even closer to her, so that his hips and lower body were flush against her bottom. She found her own hands reach back and grasp his thighs, and then she turned in his arms, and sought his mouth with her own. She had longed for him all these months, and even before that. Her fears for how they could ever conduct an intimate relationship while they were both working for the security services was now part of their past. This was something different. They were somewhere else.

They were now facing each other, and she was being devoured by his kiss. He grasped her buttocks with his hands, and pulled her against the front of his body. She wanted him more than she'd ever wanted any man, and if his body was responding truthfully, he also wanted her. One of his hands left her buttocks, and slid under the hem of her shirt. His fingers caressed her bare skin, and she felt herself push her groin against him as hard as she could, and he ground back against her. His hand reached her breast, and he slipped his fingers inside her bra, and pinched her nipple, a brief action which sent waves of want through her body. Her pelvic area was on fire, and only one thing could put out that fire. She moaned as she took her mouth from his and, opening her eyes to see his face a picture of want and desire.

"Upstairs?" she said, barely able to get her mouth around the word.

Despite the ceiling fans whirring above them, they were both hot, and sweat poured from them, soaking their clothing. Harry's eyes searched her face, and then he began kissing her again, while both his hands sought the skin under her shirt. For a moment, he wondered whether it was the right thing for him to be doing, taking advantage of her like this, taking her, pushing her so far beyond their previous boundaries of behaviour. Perhaps it was the climate, perhaps it was the distant sounds of an approaching thunderstorm, perhaps it was because they'd been apart for so long, perhaps it was their heightened emotions, or perhaps it was quite simply the right time for them. Everything which needed to be was in alignment on this night, so who were they to be fighting it?

Feeling bolder, braver than she had in her life, Ruth pushed one of her hands under his shirt to run her palm across his back – so warm and so solid - while the other snaked down the front of his body, and cupped his erection. He was very hard, and he was ready. There was no time for lengthy explanations. Talking would have to wait until their bodies were sated. Harry groaned as she grasped his penis through his trousers, and began to stroke him.

The kitchen had no soft and easy surfaces, and negotiating the stairs would kill the moment. The sofa was too small, too short, and the chairs were a tricky shape. They needed to be able to lie down together. Thinking with her brain, rather than her body, Ruth pulled away from him, grasped his hand, and pulled him back into the living room, She turned off the two overhead lights, but left the fan turning. The night was hot, humid, and by the rumble of thunder in the distance, a storm was on its way. The atmosphere was heavy with the approaching storm, and the sexual tension between them.

Still holding Harry's hand, and noticing that he appeared dazed with passion and arousal, Ruth led him to a plush red rug which covered the floor between the sofa and the coffee table. She'd already thrown a couple of cushions at one end of the rug for their heads. Harry seemed to get the message, and he kicked off his sandals before he lay down on the rug, and eased his body to the side to make room for her. As he waited for her to lie beside him, he unbuckled his belt, and removed his pants, which meant that the only clothes he wore were his loose-fitting beige shirt, and his white trunks. Ruth turned on her side, and looked at him – _really_ looked at him. His face told her that desire and sexual arousal had overtaken him, and there was only one part of his body which was now in charge. That one part of his body strained inside his underwear, while he undid the buttons on his shirt, his fingers all thumbs.

Taking pity on him, Ruth finished opening his shirt buttons, and helped him to slide his arms out of the shirt. She then moved to his trunks, and slowly removed them, gazing at what was hidden inside – although in the past few minutes, it was not so much hidden as emphasised. She reached down to kiss his erection, while he lay back on the cushions, and closed his eyes. She took him in her mouth, and curled her tongue around the tip of him. He groaned from deep inside his throat.

"Is this happening too fast?" she asked him, not expecting him to be able to form a reply.

"Yes," he said, opening his eyes to look at her, the love for her clearly displayed there, "it is, but I don't care any more, and I can't wait any longer."

"You realise you'll be making love to a dead woman."

Harry smiled, and held his hand out to her, to draw her up so that he could remove her clothing. "I still don't care. You feel very alive to me."

Ruth put her mouth on his, and she kissed him, while his hands expertly removed her shirt, skirt, and then her bra. When she lay against him, their sweat-soaked skin sliding together, he reached down and slid off her knickers, before slipping two fingers inside her. Then he slid his fingers in and out of her, while he kissed her deeply and thoroughly. Ruth felt his erection throbbing against her thigh just as her first orgasm overwhelmed her. By the time she was again fully conscious of where she was and what was happening, Harry was above her, resting his weight on his elbows, while he watched her face, a slight smile on his lips.

"Are you ready for me?" he asked.

She felt the tip of him at her entrance, and wanting him to fill her completely, she pushed her hips forward until his penis pushed through her opening, and then he did the rest. He felt just right inside her, perfect. He fitted, and she encased him perfectly. She looked up at his face, and he was watching her, gauging her reaction, a slight smile on his lips.

"You're wonderful," she said. "You fit me perfectly."

"Did you ever expect anything else?"

She shook her head, and as he began moving inside her, she reached up and brought his mouth down to her own. They kissed while he set up a rhythm for their lovemaking. Neither lasted very long. For Harry it had been a long time since he'd been inside a woman, and this was the very woman he had desired for so many years he had lost count. When he woke that morning he had not anticipated this, could never have anticipated it. Ruth was his nirvana, his place of peace and completion, and while he'd believed her to be dead, he assumed that he would never ever have what he was enjoying at that moment. He felt his climax overwhelm him, and he thrust deeply inside her, as though mining her depths. Realising she had not climaxed with him, he reached down with his mouth and took her nipple between his teeth, and nipped it several times. He stayed inside her, pushing against her clitoris while she came, and once she had settled, he pulled out of her, and lay next to her, his arm around her shoulders.

They hadn't been aware of the storm beginning overhead, but as they opened their eyes, they noticed the flashes of lightning the other side of the curtains, and once their own blood no longer pounded in their ears, they heard the thundering of the rain. Ruth, feeling safe and protected, turned her body towards Harry, and put her arm over his naked hip. She looked down at his penis, flaccid and spent. He was still impressive, even when he was no longer erect, _and_ he knew what to do with it. She felt very lucky.

They slept for over an hour, their arms loosely draped around the other, while the monsoonal rain fell outside. Once the noise from outside the house was little more than the sound of quiet and steady rain, Ruth suggested they climb the stairs to bed. With the ceiling fan turning above them, she and Harry lay together, naked and uncovered on top of the sheet, and quickly fell asleep. It was not quite 9.30pm.

* * *

Harry heard the sound first, and sat up. It sounded like someone knocking on the door. He looked down at Ruth sleeping beside him. He didn't want to wake her, but he must.

"Ruth," he said, shaking her shoulder, "were you expecting a visitor?"

Ruth sat up, and took a moment to take in the scene – she and Harry together and naked on her bed, the rain falling outside. She smiled at Harry, her eyes glancing over his nakedness, before he spoke to her again.

"Ruth, there's someone at the door. Were you expecting anyone?"

She shook her head, and Harry quickly got off the bed, and pulled on his underwear and his trousers, and then hurried downstairs barefoot, slipping his arms through his shirt sleeves. The knocking continued, and a female voice was calling out.

"Who is it?" he said when he reached the door.

"It's Kim. Open the bloody door. I'm drowning out here."

Harry opened the door to a very wet Kim, and led her into the sitting room. By this time, Ruth had joined them, and was wearing a pink and yellow sarong. Harry drew in a deep breath to ensure he didn't ravish her all over again. It was then that he noticed Kim was carrying his bag. She dumped it on the floor in front of her. She'd barely managed to close it, chiefly because he'd had to buy more clothes, and so his possessions no longer fit comfortably in the bag.

"Everything of yours is in there. I checked. You have to get out of here, both of you. They're after you, and if they find you, they'll kill at least one of you."

"What?" Despite it being not quite midnight, Harry and Ruth were both still in a post-coital fog, and neither were yet capable of clear thought.

"Around twenty minutes ago I had a phone call from Tom Quinn. He only just got to the bottom of all this."

"Sit down …... Kim, is it?" Ruth began, ever the practical one.

"Sorry," Harry said, turning to acknowledge Ruth's presence. "Kim, this is Ruth. We were asleep, so we're a bit dozy."

Kim momentarily lifted her eyebrows questioningly at Harry, and he smiled at her.

"Kim," Ruth began again, "would you like a cup of English Breakfast?"

"I'd love one, thank you."

"I'll make a pot, then," and Ruth left the room for the kitchen.

"She's quite lovely," Kim said quietly.

"Yes, she is," Harry replied, just as quietly.

"I hadn't expected her to be quite so young."

"Not that young. She's almost 42."

"Oh, come on, Harry. She's a teenager compared to you."

"Believe me, Kim ….. Ruth is no teenager."

Once seated, and Harry had given her a towel with which she could wipe herself dry, Kim calmed down. When Ruth brought the tea into the living room, and placed it on the coffee table, she noticed that the rug was still strewn with her clothing and a few cushions. Harry had grabbed his own clothes and taken them upstairs when they went to bed. She felt herself flush with embarrassment, but Kim appeared not to have noticed, or if she did, she didn't care.

"Now, Kim, what is it?" Harry asked.

"I must admit that I panicked after Tom rang. Looking at it rationally, these people can't teleport, so the earliest they can be here is 8 o'clock tomorrow night, that's if they can get on a flight straight away, and that's doubtful."

"Who are `these people', Kim?" Privately, Harry wondered why a security agent such as Kim Castleman would panic at all, but then he remembered that for the past six or seven years, Kim had only done what he would define as safe jobs. It had been years since she'd been at the cutting edge.

"I thought those who worked in the Home Office were all thoroughly vetted," Kim began, once she had her cup of tea in her hands.

"They are," Harry replied, sitting on the sofa next to Ruth, and opposite the chair where Kim sat.

"It seems that Julian Welles, of the Home Office, has a personal assistant called Brett Simmons. His birth name was Aidan Daniel Cleary. He was born the son of Josephine and -"

"Danny Cleary," Harry said, his face turning pale.

Harry turned to look at Ruth, and knowing him as well as she did, she could see the kernel of realisation dawning in his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: Just a note to those readers who don't already know this (and most of you do) ... before I post a story, I have it written in full. I do not write as I go. I am not influenced to change the story direction by people's/reviewer's comments. I interpret the characters as I see fit - that is my prerogative as the author, and that is unlikely to change until I see a reason to do things differently, and when and if I do, that decision will be mine to make.**_

* * *

Kim continued. "Yes. Aidan Cleary was born in Belfast in 1974, and so when his father was killed in -"

"1978. It was in one of the minor Belfast bombings."

"How can any bombing be minor, Harry?" Ruth remarked.

He turned to look at her, recognising that once she heard this story, she may not even want to be with him.

"I was leading a British army detail who were called to the pub at around 7 o'clock at night. The bomb had already gone off. Several of my detail had gone into the pub to look for survivors, when I was told of another bomb about to explode in the same hotel, the idea being to take out the rescue workers. One of my men was trying to drag out this guy from the bar. He'd been knocked unconscious, and he looked dead to me. He had a severe head injury, and he'd lost a lot of blood. I told my men to leave him and get out, because we had no idea how long before the next explosion was to occur. The next bomb did go off, and it killed the unconscious man. That was Danny Cleary. He was IRA. I didn't know that at the time. I received a commendation for that, but I haven't mention it – until now – as I didn't see it as an act of bravery, and I still don't. It was more like self-preservation. Danny Cleary's widow spoke to the press, vowing to avenge her husband's death."

"Why didn't she direct her anger at those who set the bombs?"

"At first she did, but that meant she'd have to turn her rage towards her own. Somehow, she got wind of what I did, and decided it was easier to blame me, than the IRA. Cleary had been out of the IRA loop for a few months. He was considered too extremist even for them. He'd become a loose cannon, and was mouthing off to the wrong people. My opinion was always that he was their intended target."

"So …. why not take him out on his own? Why bomb a pub?"

"He was the target, but it was also all about the numbers. The press reported each bombing as though it was all about statistics. 3 people dying isn't as powerful a message as 10, or 20."

"Danny Cleary's widow died from cancer only a year after Danny died. Kids like Cleary's lad," Kim continued, since Harry was holding Ruth's hand and staring at some point in front of him, his thoughts lost inside his murky history. "Kids like that were often sent to the country to be brought up by other people, usually relatives. Aidan Cleary, who was only four at the time of his mother's death, was taken in by Josephine Cleary's closest friend. She gave him a different name – to protect his identity – but told him the whole story, and kept his mother's hatred alive. He planned his whole life, his whole career, intent on getting to Harry."

"So ….." Ruth said, visibly confused and distressed, "why has he left it this long to come after Harry? He's in his late 30's. He could have gone after him at any time in the past 20 years."

"This is the reason you had both best move somewhere else. He has only just found out who you are, Ruth, and what you are to Harry. My guess is he's after you."

"And what am I to Harry?"

"You're his weak spot ... soft spot. You see, as he sees it, an appropriate punishment for Harry would not be to kill him, but to kill someone he loves, someone close to him. Brett Simmons has lived with that his whole life. He could have targeted your children, Harry, but he must have heard about you when you were working at the Home Office, Ruth. I'm told it's a hotbed of gossip. To target you would be a far worse punishment for Harry than to simply kill him. Julian Welles was only one of a few people within the Home Office who knew you lived through your stabbing. Welles employed Tom and me in order to get Harry out of the UK, and back with Ruth. We're still not sure why that is, but we suspect that he is planning to apply for the job of section head of Section D. At least, that's the most logical reason to date. But I don't see Welles as an enemy – more of an opportunist. He's a man with few scruples, but he's not a sociopath. He'd never fill your shoes, Harry, he's unlikely to be considered for an interview, but he's egotistical enough to believe he can wing his way through the selection process."

"So, it was through Welles that Brett Simmons – Cleary's son – gained the inside information about Ruth?"

"I believe so," Kim replied, placing her cup carefully on the coffee table. "He seems to have an accomplice in Jack Wilson, who's a junior officer in the Home Office, and was recently passed over for a job with MI-6. Tom Quinn thinks that Simmons – Cleary – only got the job with Welles quite recently, and was working his way to getting closer to you, Harry …... chiefly to discover who in your life you would miss most were he or she killed."

"He'd have to have some kind of mental imbalance, surely, to hold this kind of generational grudge for so long," Ruth said, her hand still grasping Harry's.

"So, you're not mad at me for what I did in Northern Ireland, Ruth?"

"Of course not." Ruth looked at him with love and adoration. "Maybe you made the wrong decision, maybe not, but you had to weigh and measure the possible effects of saving one man, and then possibly losing many more. That's a decision you've had to make again and again."

They looked at one another then, both remembering Ruth's sudden return to Britain only three years earlier, and then there was Albany. All Ruth could think was how difficult, how cruel it was that one man – one terribly good and decent man – had had to make such decisions over and over throughout his life. Save one and risk many, or save the many and lose the one? Was it all just about the numbers?

Ruth let go of Harry's hand, which she had been grasping tightly, and leaned across to the coffee table, where she poured more tea for them all.

"Where do we go from here?" she asked Kim, as she handed her a fresh cup.

"There was another thing Tom had to tell me. Before we left London, Tom handed me an envelope, and asked me to hold on to it, and to guard it until he told me what to do with it. Tonight he told me what to do with it." She reached into the outer pocket of Harry's bag, and withdrew a small manilla envelope, and placed it on the coffee table. "There are three passports in here. One for me to travel back to the UK, and one for each of you to travel wherever you wish. He has arranged for there to be ample funds in a bank account in the joint names of David and Rosalie Blain. These are the identities with which you will now travel. The only person who knows of these identities – other than me – is Tom Quinn, and of course, Malcolm Wynn-Jones, who created the identities, the passports, and the bank account. You'd best not access your normal bank accounts until you get the all clear. In that envelope you'll also find Visa cards for you both in the names of your new legends."

"Where do we need to go?" asked Ruth.

"Wherever you want, although I think you should maintain rent on this house, and if you have no objection, I'll stay in it after you leave, just in case anyone comes looking for you. Tom is keeping an eye on the movements of Brett Simmons and Jack Wilson. They were flagged when they both suddenly applied for emergency leave two days ago. They have yet to purchase air tickets."

* * *

After Kim had gone back to the hotel, Harry had asked Ruth where she wanted to go.

"If I'm with you, I don't care all that much, but while Kim was speaking I was thinking."

Harry smiled at her, and reached over to kiss her. Of course his Ruth would have been thinking.

"I think," she continued, "that in the first instance we should fly to Java. When I first moved here I met a family from Semarang. I'd like to see them again. We could stay in a short term rental, and have a holiday together while we wait."

"It can be like a honeymoon," he said, "for David and Rosalie."

Ruth smiled at him. "That sounds lovely."

Harry tidied the sitting room while Ruth took their tea things back to the kitchen. He again felt her presence in the sitting room, even though her movements had been silent.

"Harry," she said carefully.

He stopped gathering together Ruth's clothing, the pieces which they'd left strewn over the rug, and he stood up to look at her.

"Did you and Kim …... you know?"

"Did we what, Ruth?"

"I have no right to jealousy if you did, Harry. After all, you'd believed me to be dead, and Kim is an attractive widow. I wouldn't blame you were you to -"

"If you're asking me did we sleep together, then yes, but only because we slept in the same hotel rooms for almost two weeks. If you're asking did we have sex, then the answer is no. We didn't."

Harry caught the small smile on Ruth's lips – almost a smile of triumph.

"I wouldn't have minded had you. I hadn't a claim on you …... especially since you believed me to be dead."

Harry dropped her clothes in a pile on the sofa, and then strode across to where Ruth stood, her arms folded in front of her. He put both hands on her elbows, chiefly to gain her attention.

"The truth is that Kim suggested it, and I turned her down. I was still feeling your loss deeply, and no woman, no matter how attractive, could have filled that deep place for me. Had you really been dead, and had she and I met in two years time, then I probably would have accepted her offer. I am still a man who enjoys the company of women."

Ruth nodded, and smiled into his eyes. "I know you are, Harry."

"Can we drop the subject, Ruth, because to me, it has no bearing on you and me. Nothing happened, and nothing ever will with Kim. I have you. Why would I want her?"

Ruth nodded again, and slid her arms around Harry's neck, and pulled him close to her. They held one another, their cheeks resting against the other, while another thunder clap cracked overhead, causing the windows to rattle, and then the rain fell heavily on the roof.

"Let's go back to bed," she said, and this time he nodded.

* * *

Kim Castleman stayed in Ruth's house in Bali, deciding that she wanted to see out what she had started. It would be too easy for her to simply fly back to London, allowing others to deal with Simmons and Wilson. She'd been an effective field agent once upon a time. The only problem was she had no weapon. She hadn't needed one. Which was where Gavin Scott came in.

Three days after Harry and Ruth had left Bali, Kim invited Gavin to stay over in the house. She knew he had weapons stashed away in his room at the hotel, so she filled him in on why she was staying in Ruth's house, and he happily slept in the small room under the stairs, a pistol under his pillow. On his sixth night in the house as Kim's protector, Gavin had had a bit to drink after his shift at the hotel had ended, so he didn't hear Kim creep downstairs, but he did hear men's voices shouting in English, and Kim's screams.

Gavin shot out of bed, pistol at the ready, and quietly opening his door, he crept along the short passageway which led to the living room. He held the pistol in front of him with both hands, and as his eyes became accustomed to the dark, what he saw was Kim's body arched backwards over the coffee table, blood pouring from a wound in her chest, and two men heading towards the stairs. Gavin had once worked as a detective in the New South Wales police service, and his instincts were still intact. He aimed and fired twice, and twice a man fell. He quickly put two fingers to the pulse points in the neck of each of the men to check that they were dead. They were. He felt a surge of satisfaction as his pulse rate began to steady. He then checked Kim, and finding there was a weak pulse, he phoned for an ambulance.

* * *

In the afternoon of their eleventh day away from Bali, Ruth checked her email, having taken her laptop with her to Semarang. There was an encrypted email from Tom Quinn, sent from his own email address, but it was clear he was in Bali. It was blunt and brief. It read:

_Am in your destination in the sun. Targets both dead. Unfortunately KC also dead._

Harry immediately got on the phone to Tom, hungry for details. All he said was that yes, the two men from the Home Office were dead, but so was Kim, and it was time they flew back to Bali.

Ruth and Harry took the next flight out of Semarang, and Tom met them at the airport in Denpasar. His face was grim, as Ruth stepped up to him and hugged him, while Harry stood back and watched. He had no cause for jealousy. These past days alone with Ruth had been magical, and despite them being on the run from two men who were intent on killing either one of them, or even both, they had had just enough time to remind themselves why it was they were each prepared to put their very lives on the line for the other.

The taxi ride to the village was a quiet and sombre affair, and very little was said, other that Ruth's enquiries to Tom about Christine and their two young daughters. Ruth was not looking forward to returning to her house, her sanctuary for the past eight weeks, because now it was a house of death. She would no longer be able to live there. She would never again be able to enter the house without being reminded of how Kim Castleman had sacrificed her life so that she and Harry could live. That was one burden too much, and she and Harry would carry it for the rest of their lives.

Tom instructed the taxi driver to take them to the hotel, where he had a room, and he'd booked a double room for Ruth and Harry. Harry carried their bags into their room – a different one from the one he'd shared with Kim, and for this, he was grateful. He and Ruth showered together, something they did mostly to maintain their strong connection, and they then met Tom in the bar. When they entered the bar, they were surprised to see Tom sharing a table with Gavin, the Australian barman.

* * *

_**A/N: I apologise for the leaky plot (i.e. full of holes) but plots are not my strength.**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: Some M tendencies towards the end, so avoid if that's not your thing.**_

* * *

"Thank you for what you did," Harry said soberly to Gavin, once he'd shared his story.

"I couldn't leave Kim in that house alone, not after what she told me. I left the New South Wales police service under a bit of a cloud in the late 90's. There'd been a Royal Commission into police corruption, and …. well …... mud sticks. I was here at the time of the Bali bombings in Kuta, so I thought it best I stay armed. You never know, do you? I'm glad now that I did."

"So are we, Gavin," Ruth said. "Harry and I are indebted to you."

Privately, Ruth viewed the man as being something of a rough diamond. Of indeterminate age, he was probably somewhere in his 50's, and he'd never spoken of having a personal life. Without him in the house that night, she and Harry would no doubt still be in hiding, but no doubt Kim would still be dead.

"But I wasn't quick enough to save Kim. I'm sorry about that. What will happen to her body?"

"I've arranged for it to be flown back to the UK," Tom interrupted, wanting the debrief to be over quickly. He had a family back home, and he wanted to get back to them.

"Do you think we got them all?" Gavin added, addressing his question to Tom.

"I can't answer that, Gavin, other than to say I hope so. I have two technical people monitoring their email accounts, and the police have their phones, and my people are continuing to monitor traffic to the phones. So far, there has been nothing."

"What do you suggest Ruth and I do next, Tom?" Harry asked.

Ruth lifted her eyebrows. It was so unlike Harry to ask for advice from anyone other than her.

"I've booked your room for a week, so make use of that, and then travel around some more. When you find a place you like, stay there for a while. When I get back to London, I'll organise for Julian Welles to see about getting your status updated, Ruth, otherwise you'll have to be living with a legend for the rest of your days."

"I already live with a legend, Tom. He's sitting right next to me."

Ruth smiled at Harry, and he winked at her. Tom and Gavin looked at one another, and lifted their eyebrows.

* * *

_3 months later:_

Harry stepped up on to the patio where Ruth sat hunched over her laptop. He crept up behind her, and put his arms around her, burying his face in her neck. After the first jolt of surprise, she relaxed into his embrace, and turned to meet his mouth with her own. His skin tasted salty like the sea.

"Look how blue the water is, Ruth. Doesn't it beckon you?"

She took his face in her hands and looked him in the eye.

"You forget that I spent two years living a stone's throw from the bluest sea imaginable."

Of course. He _had_ forgotten, and that was a good thing. That meant he was no longer haunted by her time in exile, her time spent living with George, or worst of all, George's untimely death. They had spent hours talking over her years with George, and Harry's part in the man's death. He now knew that George's ghost had been lain to rest. He did not haunt their time together like a spectre of what could have been. He was part of their darker past, and fast fading.

"He was not a substitute for you, Harry," Ruth had said during one of their long discussions while they lay in bed after having made love. "You still filled my private fantasies, and as much as I tried to keep thoughts of you at bay, you were always there, waiting until I was almost asleep before you stepped into my mind, and then I'd long for you all over again."

He'd pulled her closer to him then, and kissed the top of her head.

"Despite that, George didn't deserve to die like that, but the truth is, I should have gone back to England and left he and Nico in Cyprus. It was unfair of me to involve them in my past in that way. I absolved you some time ago, Harry. I just forgot to tell you."

"You're not still researching those two guys from the Home Office, Ruth," Harry said, more to change the subject. As he saw it, Cyprus was in the past, and should stay in the past.

"No, but I found this on Gavin Scott."

Ruth pulled out of Harry's embrace, and turned the screen of the laptop so that he could see it. As he read what was on the screen, Ruth watched him – something she never tired of doing. He was tanned and healthy looking, and could have passed for a man years younger than his 58 years. His paunch had almost disappeared, and the puffiness had gone from his face. He swam every day, climbing down and then up the steps from the villa to the beach. The first time he'd climbed up those steps, his face had reddened so much that she was afraid he'd have a heart attack. Harry was now fit and healthy, and he had a healthy appetite – for all things.

"Is there anything we can do, Ruth? After all, he killed the men who were out to kill us."

Harry had just read a news report from The Bali Times online, stating that fifty-five year old Australian expatriate, Gavin Scott, had been injured when the balcony of a club in Kuta collapsed, killing two, and leaving Mr Scott a paraplegic. The article went on to mention Scott's former life in the New South Wales police service, but it glossed over any details of that life. There was no mention of him having family members, nor was there any mention of why he had left the police service.

"This was six weeks ago. He'd still be in hospital in Denpasar. Maybe we can fly out to see him."

"I'd like to do that, Harry."

Ruth stood up, and brought Harry with her. She put her arms around him, and pulled him close. "I love you, Harry Pearce," she said.

Harry reached down to kiss her, his hands finding her buttocks, and pulling her close to him. After a decent snog, it was Ruth who pulled away, chiefly so that she could look Harry in the eye.

"We've had our own passports now for four weeks. Perhaps we should go home to London first."

"Perhaps. What do you _want_ to do, Ruth?"

"We're able to do what we want now, aren't we?"

Harry nodded.

"What I want more than anything …... is to stay here, just the two of us …... the Mediterranean at our back door. But I'd also like to go home and see London again. I'd also like to fly back to Bali and stay for a week or so while we sort out something for Gavin. Perhaps he'll require physiotherapy. Maybe he'll need a motorised wheelchair. Do you think we could do that for him?"

"I don't see why not. Perhaps we can do all three of those things, Ruth."

"How?"

Harry pulled away from her, but maintaining contact by holding one of her hands in his. "We can organise to rent this villa for a month every year. Perhaps two months. Then we can fly to Bali to see Gavin, and to see him right. Then once he's well enough, we can go back to London, and see if there's anything there for us. If there is, we still have Bali, and we still have Italy. The world is now ours, Ruth, rather than the other way around."

"You'll not be going back to work, will you?" Ruth asked him, her frown an indication of how she felt about the prospect of him returning to MI-5.

"Not my former employment, no. I'm obviously not welcome there, and I no longer want to be where I'm not wanted …... not when I've found someone who wants me as much as you do."

His words led them to another snog, and this time, Ruth pulled him back towards the house, until they were in the shadows under the awning. When they came up for air, she pulled him around the side of the house, into the summer house, and they closed the door behind them. There wasn't a lot of furniture in there, but Harry had dragged a folding chair in there once, so that he could lie down while he read, and not get sunburnt.

"We've christened every room in this house, Harry …... except this one."

He pulled away from her with difficulty, his level of arousal already high.

"Ruth," he said carefully, "there is no way you and I can lay on that thing and not have it collapse beneath us."

"You're not about to test that theory, I suppose?"

"No, I'm not."

Harry continued kissing her, but he held himself in check. Suddenly, he pulled away from her.

"I have a better idea."

"Nothing involving sand, I hope."

"No, not the sand."

He took her hand, and opened the door to the summer house, and led her back on to the patio, where he picked up the blanket which was slung over the deck chair he'd occupied before he'd gone for a swim. Still holding Ruth's hand, he led her to the small patch of lawn behind the summer house, protected from the neighbour's view by a high wall covered in wisteria. The sun had passed its zenith, so the lawn was chiefly in the shade. Harry spread the blanket in the shade of the summer house, and sat down, indicating to Ruth that she should follow.

"We've never yet made love in the open," Ruth said, her tone wary.

"Then don't you think it's about time we did?"

"Do you really want to, Harry?"

"Very much."

They lay down on the blanket together, and turned to face one another. Harry began opening the buttons of Ruth's shirt, lightly touching her exposed skin with his lips and his fingers. He reached her breasts, and relieved that she wasn't wearing a bra, he covered them with kisses, and then took her nipple between his lips, and drew it into his mouth. Despite his best efforts, Ruth still seemed distracted.

"What if someone sees us?" she said.

"Then we'll have to give them a performance they'll never forget," he growled.

Ruth giggled against his shoulder, as her hands reached for the buttons of Harry's trousers. She pulled down his zip, and then reached inside his trousers to grasp him in her fingers. He was already hard, and as she stroked him with her fingertips, she heard him moan against the skin of her breast. God, she wanted him badly …... and _now_. She _would_ give any curious neighbours something worth watching.

And they did.

_Fin_

* * *

_**A/N: The Bali Times online exists, and is in English, for the benefit of English-speaking readers.**_

_**Thanks for reading, and thanks for the kind reviews from those who took the time out to do so.**_


End file.
